Catching a train out of Tokyo, we moved to Hakone, a short stay in the mountains close to the hot springs. We caught a tram up the mountains to a place called Gora, where the weather was below 10 degrees Celsius, and quickly made our way to our hotel.

As we waited for our rooms to be readied, we went to fuel ourselves with food before going to the sulfur mountains and a boat trip around a lakeside.

To start off the trip around Gora, we went on cable car up into the Sulfur mountains

We then took a boat trip around Lake Ashi. (It’s also the place where the first live action Detective Conan was filmed, haha ^ ^”’)

Finally taking a bus back to our hotel where our room were prepared, we relaxed inside our traditional styled room and bathed in a nice, relaxing hot spring

Vijayawada, Andhra Pradesh, India

From India One

As I write this note I am sitting under a ceiling fan in a simple room with concrete walls and screenless windows on a bed that is covered by a mosquito net. Mason is sleeping in his little tent/crib just beside the bed. The room is on the third floor of a three story building in the heart of the city of Vijayawada, where I am one of roughly a million people going about our lives. It is a pleasantly warm day, topped off by a lovely breeze, and outside I can hear the sounds of construction workers adding a floor to a building next door, though that consists mostly of the sound of masonry hammers and clanging rebar, and not so much of machinery.

From India One

I can also hear the sound of excited children’s voices. The little balcony overlooks a courtyard where literally thousands of children have been streaming through for the last three days to view a free Science Exhibition being offered by the Gora Science Center, which is part of an umbrella organization which also includes Arthik Samata Mandal, the organization I am working with here in India.

I’ll be blogging a lot in the next two or three months, so I should set the stage and explain why I’m here and who I’m working with. As part of the Rotary World Peace Fellowship, which I am honored to have received, Fellows not only pursue a masters degree in International Relations, Peace and Conflict Resolution at one of six partner universities worldwide, we are also funded to create and complete an Applied Field Experience with an organization in a location and field that we choose (subject to approval). I chose to work with a grass roots organization in rural India, where I am now and will be through most of February.

From India One

Arthik Samata Mandal is a Gandhian non-profit organization which works with poor and disenfranchised people in the state of Andhra Pradesh, India. I am here to work with them and study their operation for the next ten weeks. ASM was founded in 1977 in response to massive destruction (10,000 lives lost) in the Krishna district caused by a cyclone and subsequent tsunami. Because all communications from the region were cut off, most of the outside world was unaware of the devastation there in the days following the disaster, and the people who were first to arrive there later went on to create ASM. They responded to the needs of the people they encountered, setting up emergency shelter and food stations, disposing of bodies, etc. The need in that area was great, and responding to one need led to the emergence of another. It became clear to Gora and his partner, J.C. Kumarappa, that their beliefs and values demanded that they become more involved in work that would alleviate the ongoing problems that made the people of this region so vulnerable to these kinds of disasters, rather than simply cleaning up the destruction when one occurred. They developed an integrated approach to development which seeks to address the complex interrelated causes of poverty and vulnerability.

Gora was a legendary social reformer and political activist who had worked with Gandhi in the fight for Indian self-rule, marched with him and was imprisoned with him. ‘Gora’ is a chosen name, created from letters in his first and last birth names. Last names have traditionally been associated with caste in India, and therefore have enabled discrimination by allowing people to automatically typecast each other, so Gora chose to create a new name as a way to avoid participating in that system. His wife, nine children and their descendants have since taken Gora as their last name.

From India One

Deanna, Mason and I arrived here a week ago after some travel adventures— we got sick in the opposite order that most people do when traveling to India: Deanna came down with a stomach flu on the day we were supposed to leave Australia and we had to delay our departure, and Mason and I soon followed suit; so we got sick and then came to India rather than coming to India and then getting sick. We’ve been living in the center in Vijayawada where the main office ASM is located, and will leave for a field office in two days. I’ll be visiting villages where the various projects are located in the coming weeks, documenting this work and helping out where I can, and we’ll be living in the small village of Srikakulam (not to be confused with a larger town by that name eight hours north of here).

ASM has such a broad mandate that it’s difficult to summarize their work. I’ll be outlining various aspects of it as I get to know it intimately in the next few weeks, but in short, they work with community development, education, women’s issues and economic development in disaster-prone areas of Andhra Pradesh. The economic, environmental and social issues here are extreme, and the work they are doing is clearly having a significant impact. I’ll be writing more about the details of this work in the future, so I won’t try to cover it all now.

From India One

Our life here is simple, as one might expect working with Gandhians. We don’t have hot water, a bath or a shower, but we can heat water in a five liter bucket, which is enough for both adults to wash ourselves, or one adult and some laundry. We live in a white room with a concrete floor, a bed, a desk, two small wooden tables and two plastic chairs, and usually at least one large gecko. There are no screens on the windows, but the breeze is usually blowing and there is a highly valued ceiling fan. In southern India, even winter feels hot to me (though the kids come to school in earmuffs and ski masks!).

From India One

We have fallen into a large family here. Most of the nine sons and daughters of Gora and Saraswathi Gora, and several of their descendants, work together and live together in a compound of various apartments, offices and houses. That means that Mason is swimming in adopted aunts, uncles and grandparents. Several of the family are prominent doctors, actually, in case anyone is worried about Mason’s health. The incoming president of the Indian Medical Association, Dr. Samaram, lives just downstairs. He’s the author of 195 books on health issues and is a bit of a rock star around here.

From India One

Soon we will head out to the field office, where we will be living for a while, and where internet will be unavailable. That will be another scenario again, but we trust it will hold good gifts as this one has, and it looks like we’ll be back and forth a bit anyway.

We’re well into a big adventure here, and so grateful to have the opportunity. So far, our experiences have been as rich as Indian spices, and we’re looking forward to many more helpings.

From India One

Japan Hour.

Its all their fault.

If not for Japan Hour, we would not have heard of the words, ‘Onsen’, Ryokan and Yukata.

What is a trip to Japan without a visit to a ryokan, soaking (read: cook oneself) in an Onsen and feeling silly (initially) wearing a Yukata? It is a trip when you miss taking things slow and really, really relaxing…

There is lots of information about going to onsens… most people don’t visit Hakone once they’ve been there… instead opting for the ones that are further afield… Hakone is by far the most touristy region for this.

We left Shinagwa to buy the Hakone Free Pass from the Odakyu Sightseeing counter at Shinjuku station. This west side of Shinjuku station houses the West exit for the JR line, The Odakyu Sightseeing counters where you get you tickets to Hakone and the Gotemba/Fuji region. The main Odakyu Departmental store is also here with a really great food basement.

Once we got our passes from the English-speaking counter, we had about an hour to get our meals for the train ride to Hakone. The train has a service to buy bento sets and all that so if you prefer to not have the hassle to look for food, just get it on the train itself.

We entered Odakyu basement once the doors opened. Boy were we in for a different experience once again.

The basement houses a goodly 100+ counters of food. Each counter is staffed by at least 2 staff. Each counters staff will greet you when you walk past their counter.

They greet you with a slow low bow and a greeting in Japanese. They do this for everyone who walks past. Can you imagine getting this kind of hospitality every 5 steps? Its unnerving… at some point i just stopped. If i walked anymore they would have to greet me and i felt so ‘paiseh’…

So i stopped and instead glanced to my left to take a peek at what was the next row of foods… and guess what? They caught my eye and greeted me too!

AARRGGH!

Now i was afraid to look at anything!

It was a humbling experience and a truly unforgettable encounter.

After more patrons started flowing-into the place, the greetings got more focussed on different customers so i learnt to time my walking (and glancing!) so that they wouldn’t have to greet me… after a few hit and misses, we managed to get some stuff for our train ride.

One point i need to bring up: most of the time, this type of hospitality is given by the females. When males greet you, there is less bowing and eye contact.

….

Back to our trip.

We bought the additional tickets to use the Romance Car instead of the normal line. For this, they issued an additional four tickets for our family. These tickets are for identification on the train only. In order to get past the ticket machine, you slot in the Hakone Free Pass instead.

The Romance car is pinkish.

..

Platform will indicate clearly where you are bound-for.

…

The journey was pretty uneventful… The countryside was not what i expected (fields and trees)… there is lots of evidence of dwelling along the way to Hakone Yumoto station… so we concentrated on our food instead…

Deep fried cuttlefish rings

Deep fried chicken skin powdered with curry/chilli mix

Chicken bento

..

Our first order of business was to do the Hakone trail by the other way round.
Most people will do it like this: Hakone Yumoto – rail to Gora – cablecar to Souzan – ropeway to Owakudani – ropeway to Togendai – pirate boat to Hakone Machi – pirate boat to Moto-Hakone – bus back to Hakone Yumoto.

We opted to go the other way round as it would be less crowded.

So, first stop, Moto-Hakone.

There is a 24/7 store here to get your sandwiches and drinks before you start your trail…

We headed towards the left of the above pier… towards the Cypress Tree walk..

and here we encounter our first glimpses of the pretty foliage…

…

Old paths carry some signs of previous passers-by…

The old path…

…and the new..

…

We walked to the pier at Hakone Machi got on board the pirate ship… no crowd at all… the trip to Moto-Hakone was an uneventful 10 minutes…. where we picked up some passengers and this is where almost everyone got OFF…

The ride to Togendai is longer (about 30 minutes)… and there are strong winds…

we reached Togendai and as you can see the queues… we must have done the right thing…

..

We got off the ship, jumped on the Ropeway to head to Owakudani to get our eggs…

…

Once out Owakudani station you will have a strong stench entering your nostrils… i highly advise you to bring sweets. We almost gave up.

The objective is to buy the sulphur-water-boiled eggs… from that little old yellow hut way up there…

…

we had to make a decision, walk all the way up there… or just buy the eggs from this friendly man selling them at the counter at the bottom of the trail. Our main concern was of course whether Megan could manage the trek… plus the people at the hut from our vantage point looked really small… eeeks.

haiz… we all trudged on… not like the weather was hot or anything right?

the view was beautiful….

I am mildly asthmatic… but i didn’t need my evohaler for this one.

…

The eggs… FINALLY!

and our little girl made it up too… yay!

each egg is supposed to add 7 years more to your life… i had two.

…

Eggs eaten (with a little salt)… we headed back down… reason we rush is because very little daylight was left and we were in really unfamiliar territory..

Another view of Mt Fuji

…

the ropeway to Souzan:

Souzan station… and waiting for the Cable car…

We boarded the cable car, dropped off at Gora station and it was already dark.
There were no visible signs/indications on how to get the bus to our Ryokan so we asked the station staff… They told us our bus stop number and we proceeded to wait in the dark with the cold wind… a bit unsure if we understood the staff correctly…

Well, a bus came to our stop, we asked if it was going to Ichinoya (our Ryokan)… and he nodded…

Everything is dark at 6pm… little street illumination… but we relied on the LCD screen in the front of the bus which would indicate our stop. We got off in the middle of a road in almost complete darkness except for some light at a building opposite the stop which we figured, had to be our stay for the night. There were no hotel/ryokan signs but upon entering the building and asking the reception, we realised that it was our ryokan after all..

We got our rooms and quickly washed-up and changed to our Yukatas to prepare for dinner at 7pm.
…

   39 i pól odc. 34  Zjazd absolwentów Matura 1988- Zielona Góra

Läste igår ett inlägg av Jesper Caron på Facebook om hur mkt man kan få gjort på en och samma dag.

Alla som svarade var nog mer av den ordning att det kanske inte spelar så stor roll att man gör så mkt som möjligt utan kanske istället att det man gör ska man fokusera på och göra bra.

Men om vi istället vänder på resonemanget åt andra hållet, och frågar “Hur mycket kan du ge till andra?”

Vad jag menar är ifall det finns ngn gräns för vad du kan ge till andra människor?

Vad vi än gör så tar det energi, eller hur?  Min uppleverlse är att om vi försöker få med så mkt som möjligt på en och samma dag så kommer vi in i ett tillständ som gör oss stressade.  Och ngn gång under dagen så kommer de flesta av oss säkert att upptäcka att vi har satt upp för många saker på vår lista som vi ville ha gjort under dagen – den här gången också!

Detta tar rätt mkt energi ifrån oss.  Att bli stressad över att inte hinna med är negativ stress och det tar MYCKET energi.  Att konstatera att man inte hinner med det man förutsatt sig, kan tolkas som ett misslyckande för många.  Misslyckanden tar också MYCKET MYCKET energi.

En av de saker jag upplever ger mig mer energi tillbaka till mig än något annat är när jag kan hjälpa någon annan människa.  Det som ger extra mycket är när jag märker att jag kunnat bidra till en annan människas liv, så att de lyckas, får möjligheter eller kan skapa nya förutsättningar i sitt liv.

Det ! – om något ger mig energi!

Så om det tar energi från oss att sätta upp en massa saker på en lista och inte hinne med allt, och kanske misslyckas…  Men det ger energi att bidra till andra människors liv…..   Hmmm…

Hur mycket kan du ge till andra????

För varje sak du gör för andra så får du också tillbaka genom att du mår bra och du får mer energi.  Finns det då någon gräns för hur mycket vi kan ge och bidra till andra människors liv?  Orkar vi ge hur myckeet som helst till andra människor eller urholkar vi oss själva?

Jag tror att det finns en fysisk begränsning i hur mycket vi orkar bidra med för varje enskild dag, men att energin vi får av att se andra människors glädje och tacksamhet fyller oss så att vi kan fortsätta att bidra till andra människors liv och välmående hur mycket som helst.

Tänk på Moder Theresa eller Prinsessand Diana.  Tror du att de ställde frågan om hur mycket de kunde bidra med till andra och när de skulle sluta?  Knappast!  Det är två av ofantligt många människor som lever för att bidra till andra människor.

Ett annat exempel som har påverkat mig till stor del och som förändrat mitt liv i grunden till den jag är idag – som har gett mig möjligheten att på ett konkret sätt bidra till andra människors liv är Anthony Robbins.

Jag upplever att han är en person som verkligen fortsätter att ge och ge och ge.  Han gör det på sitt sätt, som kanske inte passar alla, men min upplevelse är att han är uppriktig och ärlig i sin ambition att hjälpa människor att kunna få ut det mesta av livet och leva livet fullt ut.  Det är ju just det som allt handlar om – Hur du vill leva det enda liv du ha….

Vill du stressa dig igenom alla saker du ska göra, eller vill du hellre göra färre saker, men göra det absolut bästa du kan på varje?  Vill du göra för dig själv eller vill du ge till andra??

Hur vill DU leva ditt liv??

Lev passionerat och ta vara på varje dag

Michael Wesley

My heart swelled beyond its borders the moment I met you, tucked into the side booth at the tiny Tibetan restaurant upon the Himalayan mountainside. Your skin was the slightest touch of cream, as if the Sun had gently brushed its lips across you at birth. The light bounced off your hair like the rays of the moon illumining the night sky. Your eyes, which timidly rose to meet mine, brought me unresisting to the altar of your beauty.

You left, bumping into my chair as you did so. We muttered, embarrassed, as you raised my sweater to me and gazed full into my face.

Oh, that the entirety of my being could be compressed into that glorious hopeful moment! That I could stand in awe before your silent smile! That the nearness of your presence could remain my utmost blessing!

And then you were gone. After a moment of indecision, I ran after you. But some cruel and insolent spirit, deciding to meddle with childish intent in the great affairs of love, kept you from me

My beauty, my grace, how can I forgive myself for ever letting you leave me? The majestic mountains of the Himalayas no longer hold any power over my eyes, which spend their moments in vain search of another glimpse of your beauty. Other have their breath removed by the altitude, but with each breath of mine, I sigh my longing for you into the sky. I cannot stand still; my heart is restless. I cannot find peace; my soul is on fire.

By not finding you, I betrayed my destiny, for our love was written in the stars. Until the day we meet again, I strive to be worthy of your affection. A mere mortal, I am undeserving to stand before your exquisite beauty. Surely patience is the only virtue which affords me any relief from my spiritual torment.

Oh, my breath, my soul! I pray that you should think of me with fondness. Take care, for you hold my heart within you.

With hope and tenderness,

James Tager

It’s difficult to adequately convey what has happened to us within the last couple of days.

Monday was Gurupurab, the anniversary of Guru Nanak’s birthday. On this Sikh holiday, Elliot and I embarked on a journey that has trumped anything else thus far. We began by eating dinner at the local canal with several young Sikhs, where we discussed everything from tradition, to American/Indian differences, to Punjabi agriculture, to how to correctly eat butter chicken (tip: naan is not merely bread; it is a scooping device).

We then drove around the outskirts of Ludhiana, marveling at the houses that were lit up in a style reminiscent of American Christmas. The only difference was, Americans use Christmas lights. Every light in Ludhiana was made my hand-lit oil lamps. Small lamps also floated down the river; prayer offerings from local Hindus on the occasion of the full moon. We finally ended up outside a large wedding hall.

This is where the story gets interesting.

We stepped carefully around the hall for a bit, being careful not to interfere in the festivities. After all, Elliot and I were dressed in t-shirts; I was wearing shorts. And we would never be mistaken for wedding guests, for the obvious reasons. We stood by awkwardly until the bridegroom’s procession showed up, the bridegroom himself riding a white mare. At this point, our friend Manbhir gave us a crafty look, one that spelled trouble with a capitol ‘T’. And, with Punjabi resolve, he walked towards this procession.

The next part was hard to follow, as we don’t speak Punjabi. Manbhir started speaking with a man at the front of the procession. Several other wedding guests came over, and several stared pointedly at us. We realized that Manbhir was asking if we could join the wedding procession. An older man pointed to us incredulously, then waved us over. We timidly headed towards the procession, at which point the man grabbed us both firmly by the wrist and, with drunken fervor, steered us to the head of the wedding procession.

This man turned out to be the uncle of the bridegroom, and we quickly found ourselves conspicuously and prominently featured in the wedding festivities. Wedding photographers took pictures of us as we danced an amateur bhangra. The bridegroom himself thanked us for coming to his wedding. The bridegroom’s uncle, who had become our personal advocate, introduced us to members of the family. Hundreds of people we didn’t know were staring at us as we stood in the middle of a large dance circle, jubilantly celebrating during the ceremonial entrance of the bridegroom.

Elliot completely gave himself over to the spirit of the event. I was having the time of my life as well, but I had slight reservations. In Punjabi society, Sikhs are both legally allowed and religiously mandated to carry small daggers. This meant that, at any given moment, we were surrounded by several armed men. I assumed that, at some point, another member of the family would cry ‘foul’. If that happened, they would never find our bodies. This concern was reinforced when our friend Mahesh approached us during the dance. “If you get into any trouble,” he whispered, “run for the car. I’m running the engine.”

Fortunately, the only person giving us dirty looks was the bridegroom’s aunt, who clearly disapproved of her husband’s drunken behavior. Otherwise, we were a hit. Danish postulated that we were a blessing to the wedding; other celebrations may feature dancing groups and entertainers, but this wedding had its own goras!

After the dance, a famous Punjabi photographer invited me to join him in a Potiala peg. I agreed, not knowing that a Patiala peg is an Indian term for an 90 mm shot of alcohol (an American shot is around 30 mm). Meanwhile, Elliot again enjoyed his super-gora status, taking pictures with (literally) the entire wedding band. It was soon after this that our friends asked to “talk to us for a quick moment”. Dodging crowds of gawking servers and wedding well-wishers (having received the blessing of the bridegroom’s family, we were now VIPs), we reached the car and made our escape.

Since it was the Guru’s birthday, our fun did not stop there. We spent the rest of the night firing off fireworks from the roof of our building. Our own ‘crackers’ joined the other displays going on across the town, and we helped Ludhiana celebrate in style.

Gushing with exuberance, we thanked our friend Manbhir for getting us into the wedding display. He responded with humility and restraint: “You should wash my feet and drink the water.”

At around 1:30 we went to our respective beds and fell, or rather plummeted, to sleep. At dawn, we woke up and headed to the Himalayas.

But that’s another story.

Just another Wednesday..

Since we returned from our beautiful Japan trip, two and a half weeks ago, we haven’t turned on the TV!

My mum said to me “Really? You haven’t watched the news? You didn’t know about ???” I think it was a natural disaster or an unnatural one – it was a disaster either way and I didn’t know about it until she told me. Not that me knowing made one ounce of difference to what happened. It just made me sad!

So, today I thought I would look at some news online – see what the world was up to. It was not pretty.

There was a horror story about a rapist/murderer in America, a story about Nicole Kidman saying she likes weird and kinky sex games with her ‘wild’ husband (I don’t actually believe her. I think she was trying to sound ‘interesting’), another story about three girls drowning in a car in a lake somewhere in the US, a story about a paeodophile who used to live in Pinjarra, lots of photos of drunk and unconscious people at the Melbourne Cup yesterday and the ugly list goes on.

The least offensive thing I could find, whilst trying to eat my lunch was photos of celebrities who have had braces on their teeth! Yuk – makes me gag just thinking about those photos!

So, another Wednesday in the world and lots of stuff happened and I keep the TV turned off again tonight, because, quite frankly, I don’t want to know.

Is there any truth in the saying ‘what you don’t know, can’t harm you’? I hope so.

Photos compliments of Japan.

This blog post finds us in perhaps the wildest state in India: Punjab.

I fully expected us to end up in the Punjab, for the simple reason that our friend Danish is Punjabi. In Delhi, we would eat our food surrounded by young turbaned Sikhs, friends of Danish’s, who would try to explain to us how Punjabi food is completely different. We would walk past gurudwhalas (Sikh temples), where Punjabi warriors carrying swords and spears would file by in procession, dressed in both the saffron colors (which denote peace) or royal blue (which denotes war). Here in the Punjab, we have learned the phrase “Teyaar-Bar-Teyaar”, which describes the Sikh warrior’s constant state of preparedness for battle.

Punjabis can best be described as the Texans of India. They think India is great, but their Punjabi pride is the defining aspect of their identity. As our friend Manbhir tried to explain, “you cannot describe it; you can only experience it. If you’re lucky enough to be born Punjabi.”

Yesterday we had the incredible privilege of visiting Amritsar, the holiest site in all of Sikhdom (Danish’s father described it as a Sikh Jerusalem). There, we saw the Golden Temple which houses the Guru
Granth Sahib, the holy book of the Sikh religion. It is the most magnificent single book I have ever seen, and by far the largest.

We partook in all the wonders of the Golden Temple; we washed our hands and feet in the holy waters that are meant to heal the sick. We ate at the Communal Kitchen where all eat the same meal together, representative of Sikh’s egalitarian philosophy and humankind’s inherent unity. We bought (and are currently wearing) kadda, the Sikh bracelets which symbolize being ‘handcuffed to G-d’, as our friend Mahesh put it.

Afterwards, we visited the site of the Jallianwalla Bagh massacre. In 1919, British soldiers opened fire on a crowd of unarmed Sikhs, killing over a thousand protesters. The soldiers stopped firing only when they ran out of bullets. The resulting anger and shock fueled the burgeoning India independence movement.

In the Punjab, Elliot’s celebrity status has become more pronounced. People continue to point at him and shout “Gora!”. Others have asked to have their pictures taken with him. I receive less attention; our Punjabi friends believe that this is because I can pass for Indian, or at least half-Indian. Those of you who know my idiosyncracies will not be surprised that I took this as an undeserved compliment. However, I suspect that Elliot’s appeal comes from the fact that he is a super-gora, with his red hair and pale complexion. Beside him, I’m just some white kid.

We have seen several other goras in the Punjab, but the feeling of comradery I expected to appear between us strangers in a strange land has not  occurred. I suspect that it is because so many people come here for such different regions. We have seen many goras that, Danish explained, are here to take the shortcut to enlightenment: that is to say, Indian holy places coupled with mind-altering substances. Others have taken different paths; we passed several gora Sikhs, dressed all in white. I would have loved to sit down with them and listen to why they made such a radical life decision, to give themselves so fully to a religion that certainly had little to do with their original spiritual background. But the atmosphere of the Golden Temple, I felt, discouraged such intrusion into others’ private contemplation.

More posts are forthcoming regarding the generous Tiwana family. On the 4^th, we will be in Bombay. Until then,

Jo bole so nihal!

Sat Sri Akal!

-James and Elliot

[Excerpt from Iain Robert Smith, '"Beam Me up, Ömer": Transnational Media Flow and the Cultural Politics of the Turkish Star Trek Remake', The Velvet Light Trap: A Critical Journal of Film&Television 61 (2008) 3-13.]

In the recent Turkish sci-fi comedy G.O.R.A. (2005), writer/star Cem Yilmaz thoroughly lampoons many of the Americentric traditions of Hollywood science fiction. After the film opens on a space station in which all the characters are speaking English, one character points out the anomaly, pleading, “Can we not have it in Turkish?” Indeed, Turkish turns out to be the galactic lingua franca in this narrative, with everyone—including the alien races—conversing in the Turkish language and using Turkish lira to trade. It is not America that has colonized the people’s consciousness—to paraphrase those infamous words of Wim Wenders—but Turkey. This pointed inversion of the U.S. bias in Hollywood science fiction narratives, however, is balanced with an obvious affection for said films, with the film also offering loving homages to such iconic U.S. films as Star Wars (1977) and The Matrix (1999).

This tension between oppositional critique and mimetic reverence illustrates one of the many layers of ambivalence that lie at the heart of transnational processes of cultural exchange. While the film undoubtedly offers a critique of the Americentrism in science fiction narratives, it also draws upon and imitates elements from those same cultural products. Indeed, this is a relationship that can be traced throughout much of Turkish cinematic history, most evidently in those cycles of popular cinema from the 1960s and 1970s that are known within Turkey as Yesilçam. Steeped within what Nezih Erdogan terms “mimicry beyond innocent inspiration” (166), these films self-consciously appropriated elements from U.S. popular culture, often taking characters, plots, and music and recontextualizing them within films produced in the local industry. These ranged from unlicensed remakes in which stories were translated for local audiences, such as in ¸Seytan (Satan, 1974), which follows the basic premise of The Exorcist (1973), albeit with the Catholic iconography replaced with that of Islam, to films such as Dünyayi kurtaran adam (The Man Who Saves the World, 1982), in which footage from Star Wars (1977) was appropriated and used as special effects sequences in a wholly unrelated narrative.

These processes of cultural hybridization reflect what Marwan M. Kraidy describes in his recent Hybridity, or the Cultural Logic of Globalization in that they represent globalization not as a unitary one-way process of cultural homogenization but as an interstitial process through which cultures borrow from and interact with each other. Nevertheless, while these examples point to the hybridizing nature of cultural exchange, this does not mean that we should neglect the fact that these processes of hybridization are highly contingent on structural factors. As Kraidy argues, while most analyses of globalization that focus solely on cultural imperialism tend to overemphasize the structural factors of economic power and dominance, and most analyses that focus on processes of hybridization tend to offer a politically benign vision of diversity, an alternative framework that he terms “critical transculturalism” would pay attention to the hybridizing nature of cultural exchange and yet still retain the broader concerns of cultural imperialism around unequal power distribution (9). In this article I utilize this framework of critical transculturalism to explore Turkish appropriations of American popular culture, looking specifically at how Turist Ömer Uzay Yolunda (Tourist Ömer in Star Trek, 1974), the film more commonly referred to within Western fan culture as the “Turkish Star Trek,” reconfigures and recontextualizes the world of Star Trek.¹ Rather than see this unlicensed remake as a derivative plagiarism of the earlier TV series, I position Turist Ömer Uzay Yolunda within wider debates on the transnational flows of media and the overlapping, intersecting nature of cultural production. Opposing the essentialist positions that envision cultures as “pure” and under threat of being tainted by the “other,” I intend this model of transcultural exchange to draw attention to the intricate processes of borrowing and exchange through which cultures adapt and evolve. It is necessary, however, to make clear at the outset that this will be a “relational, processual, and contextual approach to hybridity” (Kraidy xii) that explores this film as a particular localized practice. Therefore, it is necessary that we begin with the sociohistoric context in which this appropriation took place, paying careful attention to the ways in which Turist Ömer Uzay Yolunda inflects the specific conditions of its production.

…

Jamen bröder och systrar, töser och pågar, det är en glädje att presentera för er…

Staffan Ling!
Vem?
STAFFAN LING!
Vem!?
Mm, just det. Vi går vidare…

Det här inlägget handlar om mjölk och musik. Norrmejerier står för mjölken, bullarna och hela spektaklet. Spektaklet går ut på att häva ett glas mjölk så fort som möjligt. Mejeriet har turnerat runt i ingemansland/Norrland/hemma under hösten och igår, lördag tjugotre/tio, var det alltså dags för final i bitterljuva, sorglustiga och kära, kära Umeå.

Norrlands stoltheter… De tre finalisterna intervjuade av STAFFAN LING. En av de kommer snart vinna en livsförbrukning av mjölk.

Umeås Reinfeldt, översten, kommunalråd i Umeå (tillsammans med sossepågen Lennart Holmlund), Anders Ågren bestämde sig för att sig ett glas också. Han var dock inte med i tävlingen utan där bara för att… jaa du… Vi går vidare igen.

Killen är peppad. Och det hjälpte, han vann till slut. MEN nu till några riktiga norrländska stoltheter, det som var intressant med hela jippot…

Say hello to Movits!

En Norrmejerisk bulle i handen! Och autograf fick man tag på, jajjamän!

“Det här är början på inlägget fast tvärtom…”

]]> http://kingshukmukherji.wordpress.com/2009/10/20/lasting-bedtime-pictures/ Tue, 20 Oct 2009 10:54:16 +0000 kingshukmukherji http://kingshukmukherji.wordpress.com/2009/10/20/lasting-bedtime-pictures/

Bedtime stories. I loved them. My mom told me many. I loved those stories because they were seldom about fairies and midgets and dealt more with real people and their circumstances.

My father, though, had just one in stock. And, he pulled it out of the bag on demand. Yet, we always had a laugh — even though everything about it was stale. We broke into peels of laughter when he narrated the only fat man’s tale he knew.

This picture of portliness stuffed his mouth with every dish at a restaurant and got weighed down by his humongous girth. Always, a crane lifted him and lowered him in his car which he inevitably failed to drive, tummy tyres getting stuck to the wheel.

Then. The climax. Such was the man’s weight that all four tyres went fooosh. The catch here was the comic book sound. It never was a bang. The sheer gracelessness of the affair left us choking with mirth. God only knows how many times he sent us to bed with this. We never tired of it.

The staggering rotundity, buttons bursting, trousers coming unstuck, gluttony, layers of double chin, a man dripping sweat from every pore being lifted out of a restaurant seat by crane and then the fooosh! These images and sounds are deeply embedded in the subconscious to this day.

The other extreme was Mom. The demand on her for stories was excruciatingly high. So, she was constrained to tell us all she read. In those days, Alistair MacLean was big. So were Harold Robbins and Sidney Sheldon. She had read a racy Robbins thriller called Fan Club.

The book had an extremely inconvenient cover — a nude woman spread-eagled on a bed. It was about a mentally deranged man who stalked a popular actress and held her captive. Displaying editing skill, she navigated us through chapter and verse as we heard in starry-eyed amazement.

Looking back on those days, I can well imagine the pressure brought upon her by her two nagging sons to put them to sleep with stories. Fan Club was a measure of the extreme. Otherwise, I got to know of a hopeless romantic called Devdas before his travails lulled me to slumber.

Bankim Chandra’s Ananda Math, Rabindranath’s Gora and even Leon Uris’s memorable story of Israel’s birth — Exodus — all served as bedtime food for thought. Not that I switched off immediately after the tale was told.

The brain would go on the overdrive painting pictures of the fiery Santan Dal as the story was told, of David Ben-Gurion and his epic struggle, of a desperate woman held hostage by a mad man.

The brain that had raced, hunted, twisted and turned with the characters and plot needed time to calm before sleep descended. Mum, an expert in watering down complex themes and intense storylines for us, never fatigued of the insatiable taar por (what happens next?) and soldiered on tirelessly.

With time, tar por would come with the heaviness of sleep. When it would be time to stop, she’d sign off saying: taar aar por nei…(Nothing happens next). Eyes would shut, breathing would become heavy. We’d be in slumberland.

I november 2009 (ofta någon gång mellan den 19:e och 22:a) uppmärksammas TGDOR, Transgender day of remembrance. Jag kan förstå det, men jag tycker att det är en dålig idé.

Jag tycker att det är för synd och för typiskt för en så depressionsdrabbad befolkningsgrupp att vår enda dag, dagen då bara vi i transrörelsen samlas är en dag som handlar om död, mord, våld och hat. Vår enda dag. Den andra gången vi aktivt gör oss synliga utåt som rörelse är väl under pridefestivalen som efter all politik för de flesta resulterar i att vara del av en glittrig prideparad.

Ingen av de där två extremerna fungerar för mig. Jag orkar inte jobba med hatvåld, det är för tungt för mig och jag mår inte bra av det. Och jag kan inte med att känna mig som ett objekt i en parad. Jag vill gärna ha ett mellanting mellan fest, yta, fackeltåg och mord.

Jag vill ha en dag där vi är konstruktiva och kraftfulla. Att inte göra en mer politisk ansats med en gemensam dag är att kasta bort stora mängder aktivistisk, handlingskraftig och intellektuell potential som vår(a) fantastiska rörelse(r) har. Jag vill skapa något bättre, vara aktiv tillsammans med er andra.

Därför har jag några förslag på vad vi kan samlas och göra varje år fram till 2014 då vi återigen kan ha transgender day of remembrance om ni vill och minnas dem av oss som dött på grund av transfobi:

2009 Transgender day of REcognition – erkännande eller igenkännande. Vi spenderar dagen med att visa våra förebilder, tala om dem, inspireras av varandra, erkänna varandra för det gångna årets vinster och kamper. Vi kan också tala om igenkännande, om våra likheter rörelser och identiteter emellan, internationellt och nationellt. Eller prata om hur vi ska gå tillväga för att få en svensk motsvarighet till Gender Recognition Act (där, i grova drag, ens identitet bestämmer ens juridiska kön utan krav på hur kroppen ska se ut).

2010 Transgender day of REproduction - reproduktion, kopiering, återgivande, fortplantning eller avbildning. Vi talar om eller hyllar våra familjer och olika familjebildningar, lyssnar på berättelser om möjligheter till fortplantning för transidentifierade personer eller så pratar vi om konst som återger transidentifierade personer på ett positivt sätt.

2011 Transgender day of REvolution – revolution, rotation, omvälvning eller varv. Vi träffas och pratar om vad som ska till för vår revolution, vad vi vill, hur vi ska komma dit. Vi diskuterar kring visioner, strategier och bygger nätverk för att realisera våra planer.

2012 Transgender day of REcording - inspelning eller upptagning. Vi samlar material under året på ljud och eller bild och sätter ihop ett scenprogram av det för att visa på våra verkligheter och våra vardagar.

2013 Transgender day of REwriting – omskrivning. Vi talar om vår historia, vad som synts och vad som inte synts. Vad vi behöver ta tillbaka för att finnas på den historiska kartan.

2014 Transgender day of REmembrance – hågkomst, åtanke eller minne.

Jag förstår så klart att det är viktigt att arbeta mot hatbrott och att även sorgen har sin plats. Att fina människor dör i onödan av antingen eget eller någon annans hat. Jag ser också att jag och mina bästa vänner finns i riskzonen för detta våld. Men jag tror inte att vi som rörelse behöver fokusera på sorgen nu. Jag tror också att om jag blir hatmördad nästa år, vill jag känna att jag har gjort något, att jag stod upp för mig och levde så länge jag fick. Att jag stod upp för någon annan och gav andra värme, styrka och glädje medan jag kunde.

The trigger for this post is this post.

This post may only appeal to Bengalis and/ or people who have stayed in Kolkata once in their life during 70’s or 80’s and have a first hand experience with  Bengalis. Apologies to others, who may not relate to the post or don’t find it useful in any way.

Long long time ago, when this earth was not a global village, when being a real Bengali meant to stay and work in Kolkata, I remember how Bengalis categorized people from the two parts of the world- One was Kolkata and second- rest of the world.

Please note the intention of this post is not to offend anyone, but to showcase how Bong’s saw other communities some 15-20 years back.

The Madrasis

All people from South India were called Madrasi. Irrespective of where they originate from- Kanyakumari, Hyderabad or Kochi, everyone is a Madrasi. A Madrasi is a person who wears a dhoti like a lungi, paints lines with white powder on his forehead and speaks a non recognizable language while addding adds an ‘y’ before and ‘a’ after almost every English word. Like, “my name is Yes Yes Venkataramana and I come to meeta Yem Yen Srinivasan fora meetinga“. The female Madrasi will wear the Saari in a weird way and she will tie Jasmine strands on their hair. Bengalis were primarily attracted to Madrasi food namely idli, dosa (pronounced dhosa), sambar and rasam and happily added to their  jolkhabar ( light snacks) menu. However, Bengali’s always believed that Madrasis used too much of coconut oil, on their hair to their food. The Madrasis had their close knit community in Deshopriyo Park, which still exists today. In Mumbai, today, Matunga ( East) is the place to find Madrasis abundantly.

An old joke- how would a Madrasi translate the Bengali sentence ‘”Ekta mota beral gnat hoye madure bose aachhe” into English ?  [ Meaning- A fat cat is sitting rock-steady on a mat]

Answer: A fatta catta satta gnatta on a matta.

The Punjabis

They are hefty people, very non-vegetarian in food habit and boisterous with humour and body hair. They wear turban, sport a steel wristlet (which is used to open beer bottles when there’s no opener at sight), they sing and dance ‘balle balle’ at the slightest provocation and are vicious foodies. Bengali’s are always indebted to Sardarji’s for introducing them to Lassi and Tandoori Chicken, both greatly loved by the bong community in general. It was a point of reverence that Punabi’s used both their hands to eat their roti and chicken, while the Bong tried to conquer the leg piece with their frail  literary fingers.

They used to be mostly seen on Bhawanipore area as cabbies, termed as Sardarji. A Sardarji taxi driver was always preferred over a Bengali  or Bihari one, for a late night journey across the city, as they were trusted to be loyal, brave and responsible. At that time the famous Punjabi people used to be sportsman Milkha Singh, writer Khuswant Singh and then President Gyani ‘Jail’ Singh (there is no ‘Z’ in Bengali only J). Milkha Singh was the greatest athlete and Bongs believed once he chased a thief to China without stopping, while the thief got into the serpentine bylanes of Shyambazar. That’s why he was called The Flying Sikh. Bengali’s believed that Punjabi’s take bath only once in a week, that is on Sunday. For some weird reason most popular jokes were always based on Punjabi’s, more particularly Sardarji’s.

I remember a very short one.

[Start of joke] Bengali to Sardarji- Are you relaxing? Sardarji replies- No, I am Milkha Singh. [end of Joke]

The Nepalis

The Nepalis are anyone with Mongoloid features whether from Bhutan, Japan, Sikkim, Phillippines or  Mizoram. The Nepali’s who are employed as doormen with a gun were termed as ‘Gurkha’. Nepali’s were also seen in Chinese restaurants all over the city. Ironically, the real Chinese people of Tangra ( Chinatown of Kolkata) speaks fluent and flawless Bengali. A Nepali would always wear a Gurkha Tupi (cap), carry a  Khukuri and wouldn’t hesitate to bet on their lives to protect the needy. The famous Nepali’s who were admired by the Bengali that time was Danny Dengzongpa and Subhash Ghising. Everyone loved Danny for his role on Lalkuthi (the 1978 Bangla horror film featuring the Song ‘ Tomar Bari Amar bari…Amar bari nei’ sung by  Kishore Kumar) and Ghising because he gave a tough time to Jyoti Basu and the CPM for a long period of time.

The Khottas

Khotta was the nickname of Bihari industrious community. Those days the hand cart pullers and rickshaw pullers used to be Biharis. I believe the term was somewhat derogatory, something like Bhaiya in Mumbai. Khottas consumed large quantities of Khaini and Sattu and wore Lungi. Our parents always taught us , unlike Sardarji’s never address a Khotta as a khotta and we remembered.

The Sahebs

These are the species who Tagore named as Gora (the whites) and not to be confused with the Urdu Sahib. Sahebs were essentially the white-skinned foreigners. American, Europian, Australian, Scandinavian and other members of Caucasian community were qualified to be called as Saheb. But the Japanese, though white skinned would be called a Nepali and not a Saheb. Sahebs had very distinct characteristics. Like Punjabis even they refrained from bathing. They used tissue papers instead of water for maintaining their personal hygiene which was considered as the biggest criteria of being a superior race than Bengalis. Sahebs had red cheeks, golden hair and used to stay at The Grand Hotel.  We used to see imported clothings being sold on the footpath of Esplanade, which people termed as Mora Seheber Jama Kapod which literally means Dead Saheb’s clothing. I think that meant if any Saheb died in Kolkata, their clothing were  stolen and sold at  a price, but I don’t have any research on this. Saheb’s female counterpart the ‘Mem’s were made of wax and used to wear dresses revealing their knees, a rare sight during those days.  The bong babies who were born fair skinned were nicknamed as Saheb. That ’s how Moti Nandy named his character as Saheb in his novel about the footballer, which were later made into a Classic Bengali movie ( with hero as Tapas Pal) and Hindi remake( hero-Anil Kapoor). All black skinned foreigners were called Negro, and none thought it was derogatory at that time; neither they thought one day, a negro would be the president of America.

The Non-Bengalis

All others who don’t fall under above two categories were generalized as non-Bengalis. For example, if a person is from Madhya Pradesh who is neither Madrasi, nor a Saheb would be a non-Bengali. Gujratis, Marathis, Konkanis are all non-Bengalis. Simply, said anyone who is outside Kolkata is a non-Bengali the more distant from Kolkata the greater is the degree of his non-Bengaliness.

Others

Finally, there is this unique species who can’t be categorized in any of the above. Bengali’s call them B********.

Nie wiem jak to się stało, ale w końcu zaczęliśmy się spotykać. Spotykać na zasadzie, że jesteśmy razem. Zawsze o tym marzyłam. Tego pragnęłam w głębi serca najbardziej na świecie. Marzenie w końcu się spełniło. Po długim czasie oczekiwania, zwykłej przyjaźni oboje uzmysłowiliśmy sobie, że nie możemy bez siebie żyć. Bez naszych rozmów, naszej obecności. Że nie ma drugiej takiej osoby, która tak dobrze by nas rozumiała, przy której nie musieliśmy udawać.

Spotykaliśmy się już jakiś czas i lubiliśmy kochać się w różnych dziwnych miejscach. Było zawsze przy tym tyle zabawy. I ta adrenalina, że ktoś nas zobaczy. Zwykła sypialnia zostawała na te noce, kiedy nocowaliśmy u moich lub jego rodziców. Pewnego letniego popołudnia nie mieliśmy co robić, więc wsiedliśmy do mojego pikaczento i pojechaliśmy się przejechać. Koniec końców wylądowaliśmy na dworcu kolejowym. Jak zwykle naszła nas ochota na drobne igraszki. Odwzorowaliśmy scenę z jednego z polskich seriali komediowych (bodajże “Chłopaki nie płaczą”), w którym facet brutalnie bierze dziewczynę od tyłu na masce samochodu. W tej roli wystąpił wtedy Michał Milowicz. Miałam na sobie getry i mini. Po chwili getrów już nie miałam, a Paweł siłował się z gumką. Nie zajęło mu to dużo czasu i moment później już czułam jak we mnie wnika. Bez gry wstępnej. A po co. Gra wstępna była w samochodzie, kiedy ja prowadziłam, a on całował mnie po szyi, schodząc coraz niżej, a moja ręka, zamiast na dźwignię zmiany biegów, wędrowała od zewnętrznej strony jego kolan ku strefie, do której tylko ja miałam dostęp od jakiegoś, dłuższego już czasu. To wystarczyło. Było cudownie.

Kiedy oboje już ochłonęliśmy, postanowiliśmy się jeszcze trochę pobawić. Jako, że od dłuższego czasu nie mieliśmy okazji odwiedzić tutejszego dworca, spędziliśmy tam trochę czasu. Chodziliśmy po ruinach dawnego dworca. Tam gdzie dawniej były kasy biletowe, teraz rósł sobie krzaczek z takimi ciemnymi owocami, podobnymi do jagód. Nie ryzykowaliśmy i nie próbowaliśmy zjeść tych owoców.

Stał tam też pociąg. Kilka wagonów. Pięć, może sześć. Nie zwracaliśmy na to uwagi. Stał tak dosyć długo, a do ostatniego wagonu były przyczepione schodki, po których można było wejść na jego dach. A skoro tak lubiliśmy zabawy, postanowiliśmy wejść na dach jednego z wagonów pociągu i tam się kochać. Jakie było nasze zaskoczenie, kiedy w momencie, gdy On wdrapał się już na samą górę, pociąg ruszył. Ja zostałam na ziemi.

W pierwszej chwili mnie wmurowało i nie wiedziałam co zrobić. Pociąg dopiero nabierał prędkości, więc dość szybko zorientowałam się co się dzieje i zaczęłam biec. Chciałam wyprzedzić pociąg i przekazać jakoś maszyniście, żeby zatrzymał pociąg. On leżał bezładnie na dachu. Niestety nie udało mi się to co miałam w planach i rozpędzona już maszyna dość szybko zniknęła za zakrętem.

Zostałam sama na peronie nie wiedząc co robić. Łzy płynęły mi ciurkiem po policzkach. Próbowałam coś krzyczeć, ale nic to nie dało. Wsiadłam szybko do mojego pikaczento i ile fabryka dała pędziłam do najbliższej stacji, jednak kiedy tam dotarłam zobaczyłam, tylko, że pociąg pojechał dalej. Pośpieszny. Zrobiłam to samo. Jeśli ktoś twierdził, że takim samochodem nie da się zamknąć licznika to muszę go wyprowadzić z błędu, bo grubo się mylił. Dojechałam do Piotrkowa. O dziwo, udało mi się dotrzeć na dworzec przed pociągiem. Nie zamknąwszy nawet samochodu, pobiegłam do budki informacyjnej… krzyknęłam, że ten pociąg musi się tutaj zatrzymać, po czym wybiegłam szybko na tory. Za mną wybiegło dwóch jakichś facetów. Jeden był ubrany w mundur, ale raczej nie był policjantem. Próbowali ściągnąć mnie z torów. Jednak ja w całej swojej desperacja, pozwoliłam się tylko przesunąć o metr czy dwa, po czym  ich podrapałam i dali mi spokój. Miałam wrażenie, że mijają godziny. Lecz po chwili moim oczom ukazały się światła pociągu. Widziałam już, że zwalnia. Poczułam, że adrenalina, której poziom był już krytycznie wysoki, odpływa gdzieś.

Maszyna zatrzymała się około 10 metrów przede mną. Zeszłam na bok. Po chwili dołączył do mnie trzęsący się jeszcze On. Przytulił się i staliśmy tam tak jeszcze dobrych kilka minut. Ludzie dziwnie się na nas patrzyli, ale kto by zwracał na to uwagę. Nadal przytuleni ruszyliśmy do mojego samochodu. Do naszego samochodu. Wróciliśmy do domu. To popołudnie i ten wieczór długo będziemy pamiętać. I już nigdy nie będziemy próbować wejść na dach pociągu. Jeśli w ogóle jeszcze kiedyś do takiego się któreś z nas zbliży.

Gora Kumbhar was a potter by profession. He used to make his living by making toys and selling them in the market. He would always think about Vitthal and perform his duties. His heart was filled with love for Pandurang. Gorobha would be chanting and singing the praise of god even when he is stamping and pounding the clay for making toys. He would always forget himself and transcend to a different world while singing about god. He used make toys like Vitthal, Rukmani, Rama, Krishna; color them and take them to the market place. He was so immersed in the love for god that even in his profession he would only make pottery items that reminded him of god. In the market he would not say a price for the toys. He would take whatever money is given to him for these and would return home happily. His wife was Tulasi Bai and they had a son by name Hari.

One day Tulasi Bai was carrying Hari and feeding him and telling him stories. Hari refused to eat the food as there was no ghee in it. Tulasi then left him down and gave him the push cart and went out to get some ghee so that he would eat. Gorobha was at time stamping and pounding clay in the pit. There were dark clouds in the sky and a crow flew bye. Hari on seeing this said crow and showed it to Gorobha. As soon as Gorobha saw the crow and the dark clouds, his heart was filled with the thoughts of Vitthal as he too was a dark complexioned one. He then started singing about him and soon he transcended in to a different state as usual. He was chanting “Vitthal Vitthal” and dancing in the pit with his arms up. In few moments rain started pouring in and the kid came running to Gorobha asking him to carry him as he was afraid of the thunders. As Hari came to his dad, he fell in to the clay pit and Gorobha with out noticing him continued his dancing and stamping and pounding the clay while Hari was stuck in the pit. Hari got deep in to the pit because of Gorobha’s stamping and pounding and died. Tulasi Bai returned once the rain had stopped and asked Gorobha where Hari was. Gorobha was still chanting and dancing “Vitthal Vitthal” and Tulasi Bai had to stop him and then ask him what happened to Hari. Gorobha then replied to her saying Hari is every where; he was still in a different state of mind and thought that she was asking about God. She then told him that she was asking about their son Hari and not the almighty Hari. Only then he came back to normalcy and said that he was playing here a while ago. He then searched everywhere and found his little leg sticking out of the clay pit. Seeing this he removed the kid from the pit and realized that he was dead. Tulasi Bai started crying and shouting at him and also blamed him for the death of her son. Gorobha told her that Vitthal had given them a son and now that he wanted him back and so has taken him back. He also said that even though he had lived only for a few years he had chanted and sang the name of god and so he will attain moksha and asked her not to worry. Tulasi Bai was now furious and said that she had lost her son only because of Vitthal and that she would break the Vitthal statue at home and went to take the axe. As soon as Gorobha heard this he started chasing Tulasi Bai with the axe. When she saw this she shouted that “Promise on Vitthal, do not touch me” On hearing this Gorobha put the axe down and said that he would not touch her any more. They then arranged for the cremation of Hari and finished the other ceremonies.

A year passed by and still Gorobha would not touch Tulasi due to the promise she made on Vitthal. Tulasi was very sad with the demise of her kid and wanted to have another kid but now that was not possible because of the promise on Vitthal. Tulasi now knew that there was no way she would have a kid and then decided that get her sister, Shanthu Bai married to Gorobha in order to have a kid at home. She then made arrangements for the same and the marriage took place in Tulasi Bai’s parent’s house. When Gorobha was leaving after the marriage with Tulasi and Shanthu, their father who knew nothing about the promise came to Gorobha and said that, he should treat Shanthu the same way he treats Tulasi. Gorobha was hesitant as he heard this and seeing his hesitation his father in-law said “Promise on Vitthal, you should treat Shanthu Bai the way you treat Tulasi Bai”. Listening to this he said Gorobha agreed and returned home. Gorobha then started treating both equally and wouldn’t touch any of them. Days passed by and one day the sisters discussed with in themselves and went in to his bedroom while he was asleep. They sat on either side and touched his hands. He immediately woke up and asked Tulasi Bai, how she could touch him after having put a promise on Vitthal. He then wanted to punish himself for this deed and got his both hands cut in a saw that is used to cut trees. Gorobha now could not do any work and so both Tulasi and Shanthu would make some pottery, sell them and managed to get just enough money for them to eat. Gorobha had earlier taken some loans and now all of them wanted him to pay it back as they knew he could not make toys any more. They got his house and other properties to be auctioned to recover their money. During the auction a young boy came there and bought Gorobha’s house, cattle and vessels. The officials then said that the money they got from the sale of these properties was just enough to close the loan and that there was nothing left to give him. Gorobha was happy that he had now cleared his debts. Tulasi Bai now asked Gorobha what they would do now. He then told her that we will go to Pandharpur and Vitthal will take care of us. (Even today in places like Pandharpur, Puri free food is provided to the poor and needy) As they started from the house, the young boy who took this property in the auction came to them prostrated to them and said father and mother you should not leave now. They were surprised at this and asked him why he was saying so and who he was. He then told Gorobha that he is also a potter and that his name was Rangan and he has seen him in the market where he used to sell toys. He also said that he bought this house in the auction only for him as knew that his house was being auctioned and that he dint want him to suffer. Gorobha was moved and said this is also Vitthal’s wish and went back inside the house. Rangan and his wife Rukma Bai also stayed with them as Gorobha’s son and daughter in law. From then on Gorobha would sit and perform his chanting and singing happily and Rangan would take care of making the toys and Rukma Bai would help Tulasi and Shanthu on the household activities. Seeing Rangan doing all the work by himself Gorobha offered to help Rangan in stamping and pounding the clay as his legs were fine. Rangan then said that if there is some thing he wants from Gorobha, it listening to those chantings and bhajans. Gorobha then started singing and Rangan kept his hands in his hips and started stamping and pounding the clay. On seeing this, Gorobha suddenly stopped and asked Rangan if he was really Rangan or his Pandurangan. Rangan, then told him that he sees every one as Pandurang and that is why he is thinking like this and that he was Rangan only.

Now that Vitthal and Rukmani were here in Gorobha’s house, sadhus like Namdev and others in Pandhari who used to speak to Vitthal realized that Vitthobha was not in the temple for quiet some time now. A group of saints and sadhus headed by Namdev started searching village by village, singing his praise. These groups of sadhus were today reaching the village where Gorobha lived. The village people had prepared for their welcome with banners and flags. Seeing this Gorobha asked what was happening and they told him that a group of sadhus from Pandharpur along with Namdev, were coming here today. Hearing this Gorobha was elated and started walking towards the group of sadhus. Nama and Gorobha know each other well as they have earlier met in the Vitthal Rukmani temple several times during ekadasi. Both of them did their namaskars to each other and the bhajans continued. As soon as Nama saw him, he understood that Vitthobha was definitely with him. After the bhajans Nama asked him where was Rangan? Gorobha thought that he was asking about the Rangan at home and told him that he is at home. Hearing this Nama ran to Gorobha’s house, but Vitthal and Rakumai had disappeared from there already. Gorobha then came running behind him and called Rangan. He then asked Tulasi Bai where Rangan was and both started shouting “Ranga Ranga”. Nama then told him that it was Vitthal and Rukmani who had come to his house and served him like his son. Listening to this Gorobha felt bad that he could not recognize him when he was here and that he had committed a sin by asking Vitthobha to do all household work. He then started crying and longing for Vitthal. Nama then consoled him and asked Gorobha to come to Pandhari along with his family to see Vitthal. Once they reached Pandhari, they sat down at Vitthal Rukmani temple for singing the praise of god. The tradition in this temple is that, one of the main bhaktha would distribute jalra to all the bhakthas present there. Today Namdev was distributing the jalras and when he came to Gorobha he tried to give one to him too. As soon as he did this Gorobha’s hands came back like how a leaf springs up from a tree. Tulasi Bai was exited to see this and she ran to Vitthal, held his feet and asked him to give her back her son Hari. She then started telling him that if you can give back hands to your bhaktha why cant you give me back my son, Hari. She also asked him that during Krishna avatar he gave life to his guru’s son who died 12 years earlier, and if you could do that then why don’t you do it now for your bhaktha. Lot of bhakthas had gathered there to see this and suddenly there was a child crying for his mother. They asked him who he was and when Tulasi Bai saw him, she realized that it was her son, Hari. She ran and embraced him and thanked Vitthal for giving Hari back to her. They then returned back to their village happily.

Yahşi Batı

Cem Yılmaz, 2009 yılının çeşitli haberlerini kendince yorumlarken, yeni filmi Yahşi Batı hakkında da izleyiciyi bilgilendirdi.
1800′lü yılların ikinci yarısında 2 Osmanlı Türkü’nün Amerika’da yaşadıklarını konu alan filmini anlatan Cem Yılmaz, neden Yahşi Batı ismini tercih ettiğini şöyle anlattı:

“Yahşi Batı deyince akla gelen bir şey var. Belli ki bir Western filmlerine gönderme olacak bir şey. Kaçınılmaz akla gelen şey bu. Amacım tırnak içinde bir kovboy filmi çekmek değil. Tarih olarak 1850, 60-70 oralarda geçtiği için ve mesele Amerika’da geçtiği için ve iki Türk’ün iki Osmanlı’nın başına gelen bir macera olduğu için Yahşi Batı tabir olarak bizim filmin içindeki kahramanların tabiri olarak öyle bir isme oturuyor.”

Filmin çok fantastik olmadığını ifade eden ünlü şovmen, eğlenceli bir film olacağını belirtti ve “Filmin kahramanları, başlarına bizim kovboy filmi diye izlediğimiz tabloya düşüyorlar. İnsanlar hani bilim kurgu şeyi beklemesinler. Bi zaman makinasına binip oraya mı gidiyorlar, değil fiziken oradalar. Orada hayatta kalma mücadelesi veriyorlar. Bizim o filmlerde görüp de korktuğumuz kovboylar, kimsenin ne dediğine pek anlam veremediği bir Kızılderili kabile lideri falan var” diye konuştu.

Can Dündar, “Yaşanmış mı?” diyerek hikayenin gerçek olup olmadığını sorgulayınca kahkaha atan Cem Yılmaz, “Olmasını çok isterdim, yaşanmasını isterdim doğrusu. Biraz da benim alanım eğip bükebileceğim bir serbestliğim olduğu için, konularla ve hikayelerle ya da filimin yapısı, anlatım diliyle çok oynaşabileceğim bir şey olduğu için komedi janrında olmasını istediğim gibi tasarlıyorum hikayeleri” diye konuştu.

Filmi tarihsel bir gerçekliğe oturtma konusuna da değinen Yılmaz, “O tarihte bu var mıydı, diyecek şeyleri yapmamaya gayret ederim” ifadesini kullandı.

Evet, film ile ilgili birkaç ayrıntı da ünlü sinema sitesi olan IMDB.com tarafından film girilmemiş olması, Filmin senaryosunu Cem Yılmaz yönetmenliğini ise Ömer Faruk Sorak yapmaktadır, bu Ali Taner Baltacı ile yollarını ayırması A.R.O.G ‘un sinema anlatımı G.O.R.A kadar etkili olmadığı için miydi acaba?

Film setinden birkaç fotoğraf

     Innocent Venus is a strange short little anime.  It’s about these three people: Nobuto Sana, Katsuragi Jō, and Tsursawa Jin.  In the near future, Japan is essentially divided between an elite upper class, called Logos, and everyone else, called Levinas.  There’s a massive income and standard of living gap, and the Levinas aren’t too happy about it.  For some reason, the government is chasing after this girl, Sana, and Jō and Jin protect her.  Over the course of their adventures, we learn about Phantom, the government’s secret task force, their giant robot weapons called Gladiators, Jin’s true motivations, and Sana’s true purpose.  We meet the oddly charismatic pirate leader, Shiba Toraji, the lovable rogue Gora, and all the members of Phantom, including the manipulative Maximus Drake.  And various parts of Japan, including Satsuma (Boshin War?), rise up against the Japanese government.

     This is a rather unsatisfying anime series for many reasons.  For one, Jin’s sudden change is completely out of the blue.  I like surprises, but this isn’t a surprise.  It’s like the writers suddenly decided he was going to be a villain.  So then, Jō is suddenly the main character more than halfway into the series.  Okay…  Secondly, it’s short, but even still, it seems like the show is rambling.  They leave the Ishin, and then come back.  Um… why?  Why didn’t the Ishin’s crew just go with them?  I don’t know.  The Gladiators are also pretty sad as far as mecha go.  I’ll take mobile suits, Evangelions, or Knightmare Frames any day.  And their design is pretty creepy.  When giant robots involve the nervous systems of small children, that’s just creepy.  And not in a cool way.  More like a what the hell were the writers thinking kind of way.

     Now, the soundtrack is fine, the animation’s good, and the voice acting is of high quality.  But this is a series with a fundamentally poor plot, so none of that really matters.  You get to like the main characters, but it’s not that same emotional attachment that you get in really good stories.  And Jin, the character who is built up to be the nicest, turns out to actually be a total bastard.  That really throws you off.  The main villain’s motivations are also really fuzzy.  Drake is willing to trick basically the entire world to see how cool his giant robots get?  That’s a little unbelievable, to say the least.  The most lovable characters would have to be Toraji, because he’s so eccentric, and Gora, who, for all his problems, is actually a pretty nice guy.  This is a nice show if you need something to occupy your time, but on the whole, it’s not that good.  If you want a show about Japan with giant robots, Code Geass will satisfy you a lot better.

Story: 4.3      Artwork: 8.2      Soundtrack: 7.5      Acting: 8.8      Overall: 4.7

Kotlina Kłodzka, Sudety

28.07 – 2.08.2009

28.07 (wtorek): Poznań -Kłodzko

Wyruszamy pociągiem relacji Poznań -Kudowa Zdrój (czterowagonowy pociąg osobowy o wdzięcznej nazwie ‘Szklarka’ ), o godzinie 10:10.

Ze względu na to, że jest to pociąg osobowy -zatrzymuje się na wszystkich stacjach; nam jednak specjalnie to nie przeszkadza.

Nie ma również specjalnego tłoku -pewnie ze względu na dzień powszedni i ‘późną’ godzinę.

Po drodze mijamy deszczową Polskę, w okolicach poddolnośląskich dodatkowo straszliwie zniszczoną przez wichury przetaczające się ostatnio nad krajem; wygląda to dość niepokojąco -całe dziesiątki drzew połamanych jak zapałki…

Nieoczekiwanie w Żmigrodzie czeka nas ponadpółgodzinny przymusowy postój, jakieś komplikacje ze względu na ww. wichurę.

Czekamy, czekamy, czekamy… Przepuszczamy kilka pociągów… Wreszcie jedziemy dalej!

We Wrocławiu pociąg ’skraca się’ o połowę -pozostała odczepiona ‘połówka’ jedzie do Szklarskiej Poręby.

Dodatkowo tym razem tłok wzmaga się, ale w zasadzie tylko ‘chwilowo’. Deszcz pada nadal, choć już z mniejszą intensywnością, a my zastanawiamy się, jaką będziemy mieć pogodę

I wreszcie długo oczekiwana przeze mnie chwila -widać góry!

W okolicach Barda Śląskiego widok jest świetny -polecam! Ale pocieszam się, że to dopiero początek

Ok. 17:00 wysiadamy wreszcie w Kłodzku, pierwsza radość -nie pada!

W dole wartko płynie Nysa Kłodzka, a na wysokości jezdni (sporej wysokości…) nadal widać ślady po powodzi…

Dreptamy do schroniska, meldujemy się, zostawiamy znaczącą większość rzeczy i idziemy zdobywać Twierdzę Kłodzko

Nie wiem, dlaczego, ale przypomina mi ona trochę krakowski Wawel -może to z racji tej wysokości.

A Twierdza istotnie góruje nad miastem…

Po zwiedzaniu idziemy pozwiedzać miasto i odpocząć

Prawdziwe wrażenia zaczną się jutro…

29.07 (środa) Szczeliniec, Błędne Skały

Wstajemy wcześnie, na szczęście mamy już uszykowane kanapki i zmierzamy na PKS do Karłowa. W planach mamy Szczeliniec, Błędne Skały i może -o ile czas pozwoli- Kudowę Zdrój.

Na dworze mgła, boję się, że ze Szczelińca nic nie zobaczę -ale nie, rozrzedza się

Jedziemy PKSem przez Drogę Stu Zakrętów (niesamowicie ekstremalne przeżycie -polecam zwłaszcza z kierowcą rajdowcem! ) i o godz. 9:00 jesteśmy już w Karłowie -ładnej, przygotowanej turystycznie wsi. Muszę wspomnieć, że moja przygoda z górami obejmowała dotychczas tylko Tatry i to jednorazowo -Sudety i ta część Polski są dla mnie nowością…

Cieszę się, że szosa z uroczymi kramikami wiodąca do masywu, który dziś zdobędziemy -nie przypomina zatłoczonych niemiłosiernie Krupówek

Zaczynamy wspinaczkę, która -początkowo kamieniami- ostatecznie wiedzie dość często uczęszczanymi schodami Istotnie -powoli robi się tłok… I coraz bardziej gorąco

Już podczas wchodzenia na Szczeliniec wrażenie robiły na mnie skały tam występujące, aparat szedł w ruch prakrycznie po każdym zakręcie. Po czasie jesteśmy już prawie na szczycie. Schodkowa droga podobała mi się na tyle, że zanim pomyślałam -już był koniec Na szczycie kłębią się ludzie, tym bardziej, że jest tam schronisko i bufet -w sumie kto nie chciałby zjeść czegoś na szczycie dającym tak urokliwy widok..? Ja chciałabym mieć taki pejzaż przy każdym spojrzeniu przez okno

Przystajemy na chwilę, ale zaraz idziemy dalej, aż natrafiamy na kulminację Szczelińca -kilkanaście ‘rzeźb’ skalnych stworzonych tylko prze z żywioły: wiatr, ziemię i wodę.

Warte zobaczenia, szczególnie miejsce pt.’Diabelska kuchnia’ zasługuje na odwiedzenie Ogólnie -niesamowite wrażenie -całość psuje jednak to, co zawsze… -Tłumy…

Ale choćby raz w życiu warto się wybrać!

Schodzimy ze Szczelińca, i znów przez Karłów idziemy dalej, czerwonym szlakiem, m.in. po Lisim Grzbiecie.

Ponad dwie godziny drogi -nieco wymagającym- górskim szlakiem i jesteśmy już w Błędnych Skałach

Ale jedna wskazówka dla turystów -nigdy nie idźcie tamtędy w tenisówkach Chociaż mnie się udało

Błędne Skały są również ciekawym przykładem form skalnych w Sudetach, warto się wybrać! Niektóre korytarze mają po kilkanaście centymetrów szerokości; czasem ledwo się mieściliśmy i zarazem mieliśmy wątpliwości, czy niektórzy mijani przez nas turyści ‘trochę większych rozmiarów’ dadzą radę przejść

Po godz. 16:00 schodzimy ze Skalniaka i prawie biegniemy na ostatni PKS do Kłodzka -udało nam się!

30.07 (czwartek) Kudowa Zdrój, Nachod (CZ)

Tym razem śpimy trochę dłużej a w planach pominięta wczoraj Kudowa i wizyta u naszych południowych sąsiadów -w Czechach.

Pospieszny PKS do Kudowy i już jesteśmy na miejscu.

Kudowa to piękne miasteczko o walorach i randze uzdrowiska, polecam również wybrać się w jego okolice.

Zwiedzamy m.in. pijalnię wód i park uzdrowiskowy. Muszę przyznać, że miasteczko jest wyjątkowo zadbane i z wielu stron widać już wpływy czeskie -tj. w szczególności słychać język czeski wśród turystów, a na sklepach widać napisy po czesku. W końcu granica już za 3 km!

Mimo, że w Kudowie kursują już czeskie CDS’y -odpowiedniki naszych PKSów, to jednak nigdy nie udało nam się nim przejechać -głównie ze względu na dziwne czeskie rozkłady jazdy. Przysięgam, że -mimo sporej tolerancji na różnorodność kulturową- nie udało mi się zrozumieć i rozpracować ich rozkładu…

Idziemy więc pieszo, słońce pali niemiłosiernie, aż wreszcie docieramy do nieczynnych już jednostek straży granicznej w Kudowa Słone -Nachod.

Dziwne to wrażenie tak po prostu przejść sobie obok nich ale odkąd jesteśmy w strefie Schengen -nie ma rzeczy niemożliwych

Nachod okazał się miasteczkiem typowo przygranicznym, ale zrozumiałam już, skąd tyle Czechów w naszej polskiej Kudowie

-To tam tętni turystyczne życie. To, co od razu przykuło moją uwagę -to czeskie znaki drogowe -zamiast dwóch polskich niespersyfikowanych postaci (dziecka i dorosłego) na znaku -tu mamy jasno: dziewczynkę z dwoma kitkami i pana w kapelusiku

Dobrze, że wcześniej rozmieniliśmy złote na korony -przynajmniej odwiedzimy czeski sklep

Niedługo potem wracamy do Polski, znów na piechotę, ale pogodę mamy doskonałą -zero jakiejkolwiek chmurki

Chwilę jeszcze pobyliśmy w Kudowie i pojechaliśmy PKSem do Kłodzka.

31.07 (piątek) Międzygórze, Śnieżnik

Dziś wstajemy dość wcześnie, bo w planach Śnieżnik! Wsiadamy w PKS do Międzygórza i po godzinie jesteśmy na miejscu. Już na wstępie widzę różnicę poziomów -miejska szosa wzdłuż rzeki Wilczki cały czas wiedzie stromo w górę.

Za to zabudowa jest śliczna! Faktycznie jest to perła Sudetów, jak głoszą opowieści… Czuję się tu trochę jak w niższych Alpach -oczywiście pod względem tyrolskiej i norweskiej zabudowy, powszechnej w Międzygórzu.

Wchodzimy pod górę, kapitalne wrażenie robią pejzaże miasteczka… Aż zachciałoby się tam mieszkać…

Docieramy do rozwidlenia trasy na dwa szlaki, niebieski -dłuższy i mniej stromy (nim będziemy schodzić) i czerwony -stromy, krótszy -to nim się wspinamy!

Zatem wchodzimy i tym razem czuję, że jestem naprawdę w górach i zdobywam szczyt

Piękne widoki nawet ze szczytu Średniaka znacznie umilają wspinaczkę Szlak, początkowo szeroki jak dla samochodu -teraz robi się wąski i mniej dostępny -zaczyna mi się podobać…

Już prawie jesteśmy na miejscu Wychodzimy na ostatnią prostą, mijamy zakręt i już dostrzegamy Schronisko ‘Pod Śnieżnikiem’.

Trasa krótsza, niż ktokolwiek by się spodziewał Na wysokości schroniska znów kłębią się turyści (bufet ), ale to jeszcze nie szczyt! Odpoczywamy chwilę i ruszamy dalej, na faktyczny Śnieżnik.

Zdobywamy dzielnie kolejne m.n.p.m., a ja jestem z siebie i z nas dumna, bo w końcu jesteśmy Zdobyliśmy najwyższy punkt w okolicy

Nie było tak trudno, wszystko da się osiągnąć, gdy bardzo się chce Motywacja nie zawiodła

Schodzimy, tym razem niebieskim szlakiem, nieco mniej wymagającym. Docieramy do PKsu i wracamy do Kłodzka.

1.08 (sobota) Nachod, Kudowa Zdrój; Kłodzko -Poznań

W planach mieliśmy Skalne Miasto w Czechach, toteż wstaliśmy b.wcześnie z planów jednak nic nie wyszło, ze względu na kiepskie połączenia kolejowe i CDS’owe w obrębie Czech :/ no cóż, może następnym razem.

Jechaliśmy jednak PKSem z Kłodzka do Nachodu i zaraz po przekroczeniu granicy zatrzymał nas czeski patrol policji i poprosił o okazanie dokumentów. Hmm, była to dziwna, kuriozalna sytuacja… Wszystko się zgadzało, toteż szybko opuścił nasz autokar i pojechaliśmy dalej.

Czeska kolej i CDS przekreśliło nasz plan zdobycia Skalnego Miasta… nie miejąc alternatywy pozwiedzaliśmy znów Nachod, a ja na pocieszenie kupiłam sobie prawdziwie kowbojski czeski kapelusz ;D

Niedługo później wróciliśmy do znanej nam już Kudowy; znów na piechotę, ale pogoda znów sprzyjała

Powrót PKSem do Kłodzka, z którego niestety wyjeżdżaliśmy na następny dzień (niedziela) do Poznania.

Zatem -koniec wakacji…w tym roku

Ale do przyszłego roku!

ZDJĘCIA DOSTĘPNE TUTAJ, ZAPRASZAM!